


Sorry

by orphan_account



Category: British Comedy RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, a mean tramp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon angers a tramp on a night out. Said tramp is handy with his fists. And his feet. And a glass bottle. The only person nearby is Russell. But they had a huge argument weeks ago.</p><p>Angsty one shot with a happy ending.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry

**Author's Note:**

> Set when the boys weren't talking (I think they're on better terms now?). Didn't happen. Never will, I hope. I'm a bit mean to Jon.

It was about one in the morning when Jon left the pub. He had finished a gig, which went considerably well, and ended up drinking away his troubles, troubles that had seemed non-existent at the highs of a few hours ago. It was dark, the moon and stars hidden by the clouds. It was drizzling. He pulled his coat around himself, huffed and traipsed along the cobbled pathway to hail a cab. He turned into an alley, which was now considerably darker than it was when he walked down it earlier. The street lamp had apparently blown and now the only light came from the flickering one down the road. His alcohol addled mind told him he should be cautious. He stumbled down the path between two buildings, when his foot connected with something solid. There was a grunt, followed by the sound of bin bags being moved. Someone stood up.

"Shit, sorry," Jon said, but it came out as more of a 'shtorry', in an odd and high pitched voice.

Jon was suddenly shoved into a wall, wincing at the smell of garbage that attacked his nostrils. _He needs a wash_. 

"What?" The man asked gruffly, shoving Jon against the wall harder. Apparently drinking made him say whatever he was thinking.

"Um," Jon tried to find something to say when a fist collided with his face. He let out some sort of yelp as his head hit the wall and he began to sink to the ground. The man grabbed him by the collar to hold him up. Some sort of bottle was smashed against his chest, before the tramp dropped him. He was hyper-aware of a boot repeatedly colliding with his stomach and he curled in on himself. After a coughing fit, the assault stopped. The man breathed heavily, out of breath. He left, walking out the alley as if nothing happened.

Jon pushed himself up, groaning slightly as he propped himself against the wall. He pulled out his phone. It was, unexpectedly, unharmed. He laughed, before launching into painful coughing fit again. He had to call someone. He ran through the people who he knew lived in the area in his head. Only one person he trusted enough came to mind. And that one person, the last time he had saw him, told him he hated him. Jon thinks back to the last time he had seen him. Words of abuse yelled across the room (words he now regretted), objects knocked over and the event ending in Jon walking out. Despite this, Jon figured that the man wouldn't turn someone who had just been beaten up away. He scrolled down his contact list.

_Russell._

-

About half a mile away, Russell was woken by his mobile phone vibrating. He ignored it at first, but it kept buzzing. It fell off the night stand. He moaned and rolled over, dangling his arm off the bed to reach it. He didn't bother reading the caller ID. The screen was too bright. He just pressed answer and hoped it wasn't somebody claiming he could reclaim PPI.

"Hello?" He answered groggily.

"Uh, hey," he recognised the voice instantly, although it sounded a little rough. He felt a bubble of anger rise inside him.

"Fuck off, Jon, I don't want to talk to you," he answered testily, ready to hang up.

"Wait, wait! Don't hang up. Could you pick me up?"

"Why would I do that after last time I saw you?"

There was a pause. "I, uh, some bloke beat me up."

Russell laughed slightly. "You expect me to believe that? That's terrible. Bye, Jon." He was vaguely aware of a voice yelling slightly through the speakers as he hung up. He slammed the phone back on the table and went back to sleep.

-

About half an hour later, Russell's doorbell rang. He slid out of bed, complaining under his breath as he stumbled down the stairs in a t-shirt and boxers to answer it. He opened the door roughly, and was greeted by Jon staring at him. He huffed and was about to say something when Jon fell forward. Russell grabbed him to slow the decent to the floor. Jon had passed out, and Russell withdrew his hand from its position on the man's chest to find it wet. He looked at it. His fingertips were stained with red. Panic seized him. 

"Jon! Jon?" Russell said, tapping Jon's face. "Shit." Upon receiving no response, Russell slid his arms under the limp man's body, lifting him up. He carried him into the living room, laying him on the couch. He rushed to the kitchen, grabbing some water and a box out of the cupboard where he kept some medicines and plasters, hoping something useful might be in there. He knelt on the floor beside his friend, removing the wet coat. 

"Russ?" A slightly confused voice greeted his ears. Relief washed over him. Jon looked up at him, and Russell had never been so pleased to see his friend looking at him like he was an idiot. 

"Hey!" Russell responded with a loud whisper. "Could you sit up so I could look at your, you know-" he gestured at the dark patch on Jon's shirt.

Jon obliged, expression pained as he moved into an upright position. Russell sat on the edge of the seat next to him, carefully removing Jon's shirt. The left side of his chest was covered in small, thin cuts. The rest of his torso was littered with lighter bruises, only just forming. Russell prodded at Jon's ribs to check for breaks, causing Jon to hiss slightly.

"Sorry," Russell murmured weakly, guilt washing over him. He looked into Jon's eyes. "I don't think anything's broken."

"How did you know to do that?"

"I read it."

"Like you read anything," Jon replied, but there was no malice there. Just teasing, like they used to.

"Hey! I read," Russell smiled.

"Sure," Jon laughed weakly. His face became serious. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" Russell's eyes bore into him.

"I shouldn't have bothered you. I know you don't want to see me. I'm sorry for what I said last time."

"It's alright. I'm sorry too."

Jon looked brighter. "So you don't hate me?"

Shit. Russell had forgotten about that. That was the harshest thing he said in their argument, what lead to Jon walking out with a hurt look in his eyes. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it. Heat of the moment, and all that." He pulled Jon into a hug. A weak hug, as to not hurt Jon more. Jon sank into the hug. After a while, they pulled away. 

"I need a shirt," Jon remarked.

"Oh, yeah."

Russell ran upstairs, returning with a clean shirt. He handed it to Jon, who slipped it on. He sat back down next to Jon. Their eyes met.

"Um," Jon said, looking away.

"You're probably tired, I'll leave," Russell said hurriedly, making an effort to stand up. 

Jon grabbed his arm, eyes pleading. "Don't. Please."

Russell sat back down, letting Jon lean against him. Jon soon began snoring softly. Russell kissed him on the head. Gradually, he dropped off too.

-

It was about eleven when Jon woke, finding himself leant against a sleeping Russell. The night's events come back to him. He ached all over, but the warmth of the body next to him provided comfort he had not felt in weeks. He was content.


End file.
